Act Two, Part Six: The Frantic Father and the Ruined Roots
"I will Love you if I never see you again, and I will Love you if I see you every Tuesday." -Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters
Breakfast, as usual, was both lovely and unlovely.
Loid was too animated, obviously distressed about his wife's sudden ailment, but trying his best to hide it. The man's hands were trembling so the silverware he brought over rattled against the cup in which it was carried. Loid flinched almost every time someone spoke and kept glancing at the stairwell as if it might suddenly collapse to meet the checkered floor.
Lemony wasn't taking the adoptive father's worry very seriously. He was far too intent on asking questions, all of them the wrong ones to ask.
"Is there a library in this home?" the author asked, watching as Loid nodded and tried to get a forkful of eggs to his mouth. His grip was too quivery for eating to be an accomplishable task.
"Y-Yes, right next to my son's theatre on the second floor. You'll find it. We have books all around the house of course but-," Everyone watched with mixed emotions as a speared piece of fruit slipped off of the man's fork and into his lap. Loid gazed at the fruit distantly, sadly, as if wondering how the life of a raspberry works and if it's lonely, not as if the fruit may have been staining his pale trousers.
Uncaring, Lemony cried, "Good! Because without libraries we'd be D-U-M! We wouldn't know our elbows from our bums!"
Count Olaf was sulking across the table, flipping around his silverware and not eating his food, not even the raspberries. He looked incredibly nervous with his eyebrow furrowed, his mouth slumping in a thin frown.
Despite his understandable nerves, all Violet could think about was how good he looked.
Her husband's broad shoulders were hunched and his elbows were on the table, but his long fingers were threaded to hold up his chin. His black eyes were intent on some idea none of them could see. Smudges from make-up for The Rebellious Reunion was still under his eyes, making the tired bags pop.
Violet loved remembering, then, that he was hers. She, Violet Baudelaire, orphan, sister, inventor, had gained his affections despite their past situations.
Gently, she reached out the place her hand on his cheek, the pad of her thumb brushing over a cheekbone. Immediately, Count Olaf's façade fell away. He sighed, reaching out to hold her hand there almost desperately. As he glanced at his wife then, his eyes were incredibly grateful. The look made her heart squeeze in sympathy, sending a jolt of cold to all her joints. Her heart wanted to tell him then, "I care about you so much."
While the two were lost in their moment tacitly bouncing emotions back and forth, Lemony stated sadly, "Never underestimate the power of human touch."
Loid responded through a mouthful of carefully-handled food, "Never have."
With that sudden epiphany, the adoptive father stood, not bothering to take his plate to the sink. His face was pale and determined, a renewed hope shining atop his brown eyes.
"Maybe that's what Sali needs. Maybe if I just comfort her like that… She'll need me. She'll get better." Without any farewell except a pat on Violet's head, the husband padded up the blue stairwell, his footsteps a trackable chart of progress.
Soon after Loid's departure Lemony left, muttering something about a man named Vladimir Nobokov and a library inspection. Violet quickly set the left over plates in the sink, leaving them for someone to clean eventually.
After a few moments of silence, Count Olaf sighed and stood, running his hands through his hair. "I think everyone's decided today's an eventful day." He said as she turned to face him, leaning against the counter.
"I think so. Did you stay up all night with the-" For a reason she couldn't identify, Violet didn't want to say 'sugar bowl.' Olaf nodded anyway. "I did."
With a flourish, her husband stood and rushed towards the blue stairwell, saying, "I'm going to check on Lemony and make sure he hasn't gotten sidetracked inside my theatre…"
Violet sighed, feeling the weight of a headache begin to press against her skull. Pulling her husband's robe tighter around her thin shoulders, Violet climbed up the stairs feeling much the same as she had when she'd descended them this morning: cold, in need of something that wouldn't kill her, and uncertain of the future.
As she passed the library, she could hear Lemony muttering to himself.
"Nabokov." He said to no one, "It's pronounced Nabokov. Na-bo-kov."
Violet ignored him and tapped up one more flight of stairs until she reached their bedroom. No lights were on and only an undersized ray of light shone through the gap in the door, one tiny sliver that rippled across the hardwood. As she approached, the girl knew that the open door was her invitation.
"Darling, dearest, amazing, talented, handsome, delicious, handsome, talented husband…" Violet crooned comically as she slipped into their bedroom. The floor was creaky under her bare feet; every shade in the room was a pale washout of its original color. The smell of rain seeped in through the Queequeg window.
Her husband groaned wordlessly in response.
He was lying across their bed awkwardly, his face in the comforter, his feet hanging off the side. The dark blue VFD blanket was crinkled under him, wrinkles gouged by light bleeding in from the submarine window.
"Careful," His voice was muffled, warped by blankets and rain, "People will begin to think you like me."
Violet grinned and stepped forward to flop down next to him. She mirrored his awkward position. Olaf didn't turn to face her.
"They'd be correct." She said. Without pausing to let him respond, Violet reached out to run her hands through his hair. She started at the nape of his neck and worked her way up, tugging gently at tufts to stick them straight up.
Exactly like before, Olaf sighed. His shoulders lost tension he hadn't realized was there. After a few minutes of letting Violet play with his hair and move it to however she half-heartedly styled it, he turned to face her. His expression was thankful but worry still crinkled the lines near his eyes.
"I'm glad I have you." Count Olaf admitted quietly. His tone was uncharacteristically open. Instead of showing her surprise, Violet moved her fingers to his face to trace under his eyes.
"Are you?" She asked distantly, moving to trace his cheekbones. Olaf blinked and watched her until she met his eyes, wide brown flickering to meet dearly black.
"I am. Unimaginably thankful. But I'm… scared. I'm scared, now, of losing you. Lemony's right, Violet. If I'm changing morally from a villain to a volunteer, they should know. They should definitely know. They may decide I'm not worth it and throw me in jail. They could try to convince you I'm a terrible villain- that I still am."
His gaze flickered as she brushed hesitantly over his eyelashes. A bolt of worry shot straight through Violet's core, nearly crippling.
"I don't think they'd understand us, either." The girl noted quietly, shooting her husband a significant look.
Trying to keep her from worrying, Count Olaf grinned. "And what are we, Violet? Friends? Surely we're more. Lovers? Not quite yet…" He raised his eyebrow at her and she smiled, eyes shining.
Violet scooted closer to the Count and curled her body against his side. Grinning, she said, "Well, we are married, so you can't be my boyfriend."
"Boyfriend!" Olaf crowed, a disgusted sneer atop his face. "That juvenile term could never be used for someone as talented or as handsome as I am!"
Violet smirked. "Or as old."
Despite himself, the man laughed in genuine surprise and adoration. "Watch yourself, Violet! I- You- Oh, damn it all!"
He leaned forward suddenly and kissed the words from her mouth; delighting in the surprised gasp she made before eagerly attempting to discover his mouth.
The kiss lasted longer than usual, each separating for moments to take in air before continuing. Olaf had an elbow propped on either side of her, their chests pressed together enough to feel the other breathe.
The whole time the kiss elongated and lengthened, Violet was struck with self-conscious uncertainty. When she could actually begin to think words, the eldest Baudelaire kept wondering, Where do I put my hands?!
Sensing his wife's paralytic hesitancy, Olaf pulled away to stare down at her with an amused grin. Both of their lips were swollen and red; their breathing labored and heavy. Count Olaf tapped his long fingers along one of her hips and pecked her once on the nose to jolt her from her inanimation.
"You're so…" Olaf started, searching for a word as he rolled off of her and onto his back. His arm came under her shoulders and held her close as the girl dragged over a couple of pillows. Finally, once they were propped up against the red wall, her head on his chest, the Count said, "…new."
"New?" Violet asked, wondering if she was being insulted. With thin fingers she twirled one of the Count's buttons, imagining what it would feel like to slip each one from its catch.
"With kissing. With a… husband-boyfriend. With all of it. With all of me." His last sentence reminded her of their song from The Rebellious Reunion. She resisted the urge to start humming.
"That's because I am. You expect me to be an expert?" A bit angry at what she thought he was implying, Violet sat up to watch him with a raised eyebrow. Olaf grinned, one lip quirking higher than the other, and shook his head.
"No, but it's endearing. You're so inexperienced. You have no idea what to do about me." Her husband winked and stretched, bones cracking into place. As he yawned his chest rose and the buttons on his shirt again pleaded for her to touch them. Briefly, Violet wondered if this was normal; if normal fifteen- nearly- sixteen year old young women wanted to undress their ex-enemies-turned- husbands.
It was certainly a curious thought.
"I guess now would be a good time to tell you…" Violet started, watching her husband stand and stretch again, wandering to his bookshelf.
"Let me guess," He said without turning. His shoes clunked to the floor in succession as he peered at the spines of books she couldn't see. "You have fourteen toes?"
Shocked, Violet snorted. "Not likely!"
"You're actually a man?"
"No!"
"Hmmm… Do you have super powers? Can you say the alphabet backwards in French? Is your middle name an expletive?"
Count Olaf turned to face his orphan with straight shoulders and a sly smile that made Violet's stomach flip. He asked conspiratorially, "Are you dating Desmond?"
"Oh, if only." She muttered. At Olaf's sour look, the eldest Baudelaire giggled. The sound was nearly unfamiliar to both of them.
Olaf's expression softened as he gazed at his young wife, happy beyond belief that he'd gotten her to laugh. The husband asked softly, "What is it, dear thing?"
At his gentle words, Violet's expression faded into a sad seriousness that made Olaf immediately wary. She held up her left hand. All Olaf saw was a band of bright green around her finger.
Count Olaf's blood froze and an unfamiliar pang slashed through his chest. The ache was almost physical. He asked quietly, carefully, "You lost our- your- ring?"
"No!" Violet shouted, realizing what it must look like. "Before The Rebellious Reunion, I was with the white-faced women and Esme. She stole it from me. Said it belonged to her because she was supposed to be your Countess. Some nonsense like that."
Violet flipped her dark hair off her neck and sighed. "I know it was only worth about 25 cents, but I loved wearing it."
She slid out of her husband's gloomy robe, dropping it to the floor. Their bed sheets were cool and inviting as she slid under them, pulling the VFD blanket up to her chin. Staring out the Queequeg window, Violet noticed that the colors were just as pale and calm as before, as perfectly smooth as fresh paint.
Instead of saying what he wanted to- "I'll buy you a ring six billion times better than the joke Esme stole!"- Count Olaf was stupidly afraid of her noncommittal response so he said nothing of the sort.
Instead he settled for, "So is it naptime?"
His wife grinned happily under the blanket. He saw her eyes crinkle. "Yes, now come join me."
Not wasting time, Olaf began unbuttoning his shirt as Violet watched- surprised, startled, and ready. The Count smirked as he slipped off the pale shirt and into the bed next to Violet.
A moment later, the girl gasped. "Your feet are freezing!"
Olaf only hummed cheerfully and hugged her close. He watched with interest as a blush spread from Violet's neck to her face.
"You know, you'll have to get used to a shirtless husband eventually." He teased through a yawn, knowing she wasn't bothered by his shirtlessness. Violet sighed and snuggled closer to her husband, breathing in the smell of clean sheets and fresh rain.
"I suppose you're right." She agreed, yawning. Tentatively, after a few minutes of comfortable embracing, Violet whispered, "Count Olaf?"
"Hmmm?" He grumbled, obviously fighting off sleep.
Fighting through the agonizing self-conciousness and uncertainty, Violet whispered sincerely, "I'm glad I have you, too."
Her husband sighed and brushed his hands along her back, feeling the pink cotton form under his palm. He smiled, voice gruff, "Good to know."
In that moment, they were both solidly, temporarily content.
"I might as well feed myself to the leeches!" Lemony groaned later that evening as he sat at a small study desk while Olaf paced around the library.
"Go for it." The Count muttered but there was no real malice in it.
They'd been in the library for the past few hours going over VFD codes and reading over the letters between Beatrice and Lemony. Reading them, Count Olaf had to admit, had been inspiring. Lemony's love and total adoration for the late Mrs. Baudelaire had been stunning and unparalleled. It made the Count a bit jealous, knowing that the man was capable of expressing himself so… eloquently. He wondered what Violet would think of the letters, if she'd find them just as adorable and sweetly heartbreaking like her mother had.
"Usually," the author said contritely, his frustration tautening his tone, "One would use 'In case of death' which would mean, 'In the offhand or completely not offhand chance that I become deceased.' But here my darling Beatrice wrote 'In case of death.' As if something was in a deathly case of some sort."
By then, Count Olaf was laying on the ground with a book of poems covering his face. He recited to himself, "So learn, dear thing, learn from their woe. For love is something you should know."
Lemony sighed and glanced at his actor friend on the floor, wondering if the Count knew just what he had recited and how very apropos it was for his situation. His mind made up, Lemony stretched out on the carpet and covered his face with his bowl-shaped hat. The carpet left red indentions on his palms.
The two men laid together in frustrated, companionable silence. Downstairs they could hear the sounds of Loid beginning to cook. He was humming happily to himself a song neither of them recognized. Just as Olaf was starting to recognize the song, he heard the familiar slap of feet smacking down the hallway.
Violet burst into the library, her hair messy and dirty, pink pajamas wrinkled. Unfazed by the sight of her husband and Lemony lying on the floor of the library, she stomped over to both of them and whipped the objects off their faces. At their surprised stares, Violet just glared.
She set Lemony's hat on her head and flipped the Count's book under her arm, mockingly calm.
"So, have you even tried the Medusoid Mycellin?" She asked, reaching into the pocket of her pajamas and tossing the bottle onto Lemony's chest.
"Tried it." Both men said in unison, echoing each other's frustration. As if she needed further explaining, Lemony stated, "It didn't work."
Disappointed, Violet slunk down to the floor to join them. They sat for awhile, bouncing absurd ideas back and forth. "What if we scribble over it with invisible ink and hope the rest turns up?"
"What if we played various musical instruments over it and hope it sang its secrets?"
"What if we mixed horseradish and wasabi and turned it into a watery substance like the Medusoid Mycellin and tried to find it that way?"
At Violet's offhand comment, Lemony perked and stood quickly, whipping his hat off her head. "Violet, what if we did do that? If Ink Inc.'s ink is what Beatrice used to write with, and Ink Inc. makes invisible ink for us that reacts to the Medusoid Mycellium, then maybe if we make a sort of paste ourselves from horseradish, then the Mycellin will react to that and reveal something!"
Count Olaf was getting interested now, his brow furrowing in concentration. He told them, "That would explain why it was in the sugar bowl…"
Violet lent Count Olaf a hand as the three stood, hearts racing, minds pumping out answers and problems and conclusions in rapid succession. Before the three could go any further, one adoptive father's voice chimed happily from a little black speaker on the library desk. "Dinner's ready! I hope you don't mind, son, but I used the condiments you kept in the skylight room. I didn't think you'd need them anyway. Now, come down quickly before it gets cold! I think you'll like it!"
"Without libraries we'd be D-U-M. We wouldn't know our elbows from our bums!" Is a quote from the song Daniel sometimes sings at meet-ups, 'Without Libraries.' I can't stop singing it.
Also, Daniel Handler really adores Vladimir Nobokov! In the interviews I've seen he makes it a point to mention Nobokov in any roundabout way. I've counted five times so far.
The lovely Goblinesque was kind enough to make me a poster that is now the cover for this fic! Truly, it amazed me. I think I spent the rest of the day grinning! To see the poster in all of its glory, you can find it on her tumblr, lifesuckseggsdottumblrdotcom or on my tumblr, carleycavalierdottumblrdotco m.
I'm sorry this fic has taken so long to update. I've started school recently and I swear I have more homework now than ever! I'll try not to let it get this far between new Acts again.
Let me know what you think!